Keep Me Close : An utterly gripping psychological thriller with a shocking twist

by Jane Holland

  ‘How’s your mother?’ Mark asks, surprising me with unexpected small talk. ‘Any better?’

  I nearly choke on my olive. My unpleasant boss is asking after my mother’s health? Can this be for real?

  ‘Erm, not really. Dementia is a progressive disease, so she’s much the same as ever.’

  ‘Right, I see.’ He pulls a face. ‘That’s a shame.’

  There isn’t much to say to that, so I merely nod, scooping up another tasty green olive as I try to conceal my dislike for him.

  Mark smiles.

  Now I’m really suspicious. Just getting asked out to lunch by Mark was alarming enough. But discussing my mother’s health, and then smiling at me? This is a thousand miles from Mark’s usual curt manner.

  I wonder fleetingly where Debs is today, and if his new girlfriend knows about this intimate tete-a-tete over lunch.

  I bet she doesn’t.

  Perhaps a little too abruptly, I ask, ‘Mark, you wanted to talk to me about something?’

  ‘Yes.’ He seems more relieved than offended by the change in tone. ‘So, here’s the thing. You like Calum Morgan’s work, don’t you?’

  I stare, taken aback.

  Calum Morgan is one of our top self-help authors. His bestselling title on mental health, Twenty-Seven Ways to be Happy as F**k, kept the company afloat two years ago when sales went through a difficult patch.

  ‘Of course.’

  That much is true; I like his books. They make sense to someone like me who’s always struggled with mental health issues like depression and low self-worth. But what I’m not admitting to my boss is how much I dislike the man himself. Although a major social media phenomenon, always supportive and generous in public, Calum is a nasty piece of work in private. He’s notorious for being vile to his editors and marketing team, and is reputed to be an undiagnosed narcissist.

  To his readers, Calum comes across as sweet and vulnerable, a real ‘touchy feely’ guy who gets hurt by mean comments on Twitter.

  But I’ve heard horror stories from female editors who’ve found themselves alone with Mr Sweet and Vulnerable after conference spots or festival appearances and had trouble escaping unscathed. Not that anyone would dare make a complaint against him. He takes offence at the slightest criticism either of him or his books, and he has an entire army of faithful followers on social media who pile onto his detractors and drive them off the platform if Calum so much as subtweets.

  A woman editor tried to raise a complaint against him once, back at his last publisher, and was never heard from again, his legal team having pounced on them swiftly and without mercy. I have no idea what the accusation would have been, but this apocryphal anecdote is scary enough to make me enjoy the books but keep the author himself at arms’ length.

  ‘Good,’ Mark says with obvious satisfaction, and suddenly his smile has turned gloating, ‘because you’re taking over as his editor.’

  My eyes widen in horror. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Cheryl’s on maternity leave from the end of next month, and Donald can’t possibly take him on. He’s snowed under with the entrepreneur section. It’s so popular right now; everyone seems to be launching their own pop-ups.’ Mark passes me the basket of breadsticks, and I take one automatically. ‘But you’re free, aren’t you?’

  I can’t think of an excuse. ‘Erm…’

  ‘It’s a big leap for you, I know.’ He nods, seeming to dismiss my hesitation as fear of being out of my depth. ‘Calum’s a major name in self-help, and you’ll have your work cut out with him. Apparently, his next book needs a little TLC before we can release early review copies.’

  ‘TLC?’ I echo faintly.

  ‘Cheryl thinks he’s been a bit off his game lately.’ He lowers his voice conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, his wife left him recently.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘Yes, he’s kept it off social media.’ He shrugs. ‘It was always on the cards. He likes to play the field, and I guess she got sick of being messed around. But his new book has suffered because of it. I’ll get Cheryl to send you the manuscript, and then schedule a meeting between you and Calum before she leaves.’ His smile terrifies me. ‘You should be honoured. Calum asked for you by name.’

  ‘Me?’ I swallow the breadstick and gulp down some water. My mouth is dry. ‘I can’t imagine why; I barely know the man.’

  ‘Really?’ Mark crooks a disbelieving eyebrow at me. ‘He spoke to you at last year’s Christmas party. Or so he says.’

  I remember the incident, vaguely. I think ‘groped’ would be a better word than ‘spoke’, but it’s probably best not to mention that to Mark. He hates any suggestion that our authors are less than perfect human beings. And we’d both had a few drinks by that stage.

  ‘Yes, he did,’ I agree, ‘but I’m travel and true crime. I haven’t got much experience with self-help.’

  Mark leans back as the waiter arrives with our pasta dishes. ‘Then this is your chance to learn. And don’t worry about getting overloaded. Harry can take over some of your travel authors for now. He’s eager to learn the ropes, and he’s just come back from backpacking round the world. A perfect fit for travel.’

  ‘But if Calum’s book needs a lot of editorial work—’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not as bad as that.’

  A dish of cannelloni is placed in front of me with a watercress and spinach side salad. It smells delicious. I thank the waiter, who bows and disappears like my appetite.

  ‘Can I think about it?’ I ask tentatively.

  Mark is frowning and tapping the table with his fingernails. A dangerous sign. ‘Are you refusing to take him on? I’m doing you a favour here, Kate.’

  ‘I know, I know,’ I say quickly, and drag a smile to my lips. ‘And I’m grateful to you, I really am. It’s an amazing opportunity. I’m just a little taken aback, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ll be terrific,’ Mark says smoothly, but I know he’s secretly sneering at me, mocking my lack of enthusiasm. He raises his wine glass to my water, and I accept his toast with a sinking feeling. ‘To you and your new career in self-help. With Calum Morgan as your new prize author.’

  ‘And to Calum’s new book,’ I add.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Mark knocks back his wine and then pours himself another large glass. I wonder how he manages to drink so much at lunch and still function in the office. ‘Let’s hope it sells as well as his last one. Or better.’ His eyes glint with grim amusement at my expression. ‘Bon appetit, Kate.’

  ‘I’ll do my best with it,’ I stammer.

  He laughs and begins to eat, our conversation over.

  I pick up my knife and fork too, determined to enjoy the expensive Italian meal I’m being treated to, despite the fear churning in my belly. But there’s no hiding the fact that I’m deeply uneasy.

  Mark’s hiding something from me. I just don’t know what it is yet.

  What I do know is that Calum Morgan is a vile, obnoxious character, and I’ve often wondered how on earth Cheryl could stand working with him. If it wasn’t too ridiculous, I’d even suggest she got pregnant simply in order to escape him and his books, at least for a few months. But Cheryl’s quite hard-nosed herself, and an experienced editor after ten years in the industry, so maybe she was able to rebuff Calum’s advances without too much trouble.

  I, on the other hand, am unused to authors who torment and gaslight anyone who doesn’t agree with them. Especially women.

  Mark’s right, though. Whatever his motives, he’s doing me a favour by giving me such a well-known author.

  Now I have to justify his belief in me by making sure Calum Morgan’s new book is a bestseller.

  *

  By the time I turn down our road, it’s already getting dark. I see flashing lights ahead of me in the dusk, and stare transfixed as a fire engine pulls out of our drive and chugs slowly along the road towards me.

  ‘What the hell…?’

  CHAPTER TEN

 
There’s a car in the drive, parked alongside Ruby’s. I’m not one hundred per cent sure but it might be the doctor’s, a possibility that floods me with dread.

  The front door is slightly ajar.

  I go inside, calling out, ‘Mum? Ruby?’

  There’s acrid smoke in the air; it makes me catch my breath and cough.

  I’m suffused with guilt, so gut-deep it actually hurts.

  Whatever this is, it must be my fault. I was so intent on getting to that lunch with Mark on time, I didn’t wait to make sure Mum’s carer got to the house before Irina had to leave. And this is the result…

  I find Mum in the living room, seated in her armchair with a worried look on her face. She’s nursing a bandage wrapped professionally around her right hand.

  Our private care doctor is with her, packing various items away in her kit bag.

  Dr Forster is dark-haired and only a little taller than me, but the kind of person who gives off a deeply centred air, radiating energy like she has a nuclear core. I find her difficult to deal with, perhaps because her direct gaze is a little intimidating. But she’s been very good with Mum’s care and always comes out in person when requested, so I try my hardest to get along with her.

  ‘Mum? Are you all right?’ I dump my work briefcase on the table, staring at her. ‘I saw the fire brigade were here. What on earth—?’

  Dr Forster has turned at my voice. ‘Ah Kate, I was hoping you’d be home before I left.’ Her smile is calm and professional as she takes in my shocked expression. ‘Now, don’t worry. It looks worse than it is. Your mother will be fine, trust me.’

  ‘But how did she hurt herself?’ I touch Mum’s shoulder, and she looks up at me, startled, as though only just aware that I’ve entered the room. ‘Mum, what have you done?’ I frown at her bandaged hand, confused. ‘Did… Did you have a fall?’

  ‘It’s a minor burn, that’s all.’ Dr Forster closes her medical kit. ‘But I’ve covered it, all the same, to make sure there’s no chance of infection. She’ll need the dressing removed in a day or two, so the skin can air.’

  ‘A burn?’ I put a hand to my mouth. ‘Is that why the fire brigade was here? Oh my God.’

  ‘I believe there was a small fire in the kitchen. A tea cloth caught light from the gas flame and set fire to a few things. Nothing to fret about, just a bit of a mess in there. But the fire service was called as a precaution.’

  I resist the urge to see how bad the damage is. If it was only a small fire, then it can wait.

  ‘But how did she get hurt?’

  ‘Apparently, your mother tried to put out the fire herself, and burnt her hand in the process.’

  ‘Oh, dear God.’

  Mum meets my anguished look with a stare of blank bafflement. ‘I don’t remember any of that. Well, I remember my hand hurting.’

  ‘I don’t understand. You shouldn’t have been using the oven at all.’ I take her bandaged hand and very gently turn it over, wishing I knew how this calamity could have happened. ‘Was Irina still here? And what about Ruby? I saw her car in the drive. Surely you weren’t here on your own?’

  At that moment, Ruby comes bustling into the room with a glass of water and stops dead at the sight of me.

  ‘Oh,’ Ruby says, looking distraught. ‘Miss Kinley, thank goodness you’re back. I thought I heard a car pull up.’

  ‘Ruby?’ Carefully, I release Mum’s hand and straighten up. My heart is hammering with guilt and incredulity, but I don’t want to accuse her of anything without knowing the truth. ‘Why did you let my mother anywhere near the cooker? I’m sure I noted in my instruction sheet that she shouldn’t be allowed to operate it, or even to go in the kitchen unsupervised. There have been dangerous incidents before. That’s why she can’t be left alone.’

  ‘I’m all right,’ Mum mutters, shaking her head. ‘It was an accident. Everyone, just stop fussing over me like I’m a child.’

  ‘It was an accident, yes,’ I agree with her, my tone softening, ‘but it shouldn’t have happened. Not if you had someone else in the house.

  ‘Well, that’s just it.’ Guiltily, Ruby puts the glass of water on the side table next to my mother’s chair. ‘I wasn’t here. Nobody was.’

  I’m stunned. ‘But… But I left Irina to look after her until you arrived. I made it clear Mum mustn’t be left alone.’

  ‘Your cleaner left before I got here; I must have just missed her, I suppose.’ Ruby seems a little flushed and off-balance, her voice rushed. ‘I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.’

  ‘I can’t believe Irina would do that. Exactly how late were you?’

  ‘I got here at about a quarter to twelve.’

  ‘What?’ I stare at her in disbelief. ‘You said you’d be here as soon as possible.’

  ‘I know, and I’m really sorry. I can’t say it often enough. Everything went wrong for me this morning.’ Tears spring into her eyes as she adds thickly, ‘I know it’s not an excuse, but… my grandfather died this morning.’

  This silences me.

  Mum looks round at her, wide-eyed. ‘Oh no!’

  ‘I… I’m sorry,’ I say, feeling awkward. ‘That’s awful news.’

  ‘He didn’t live with me. In fact, I’ve barely spoken to him in years. But it was still a shock. And I couldn’t leave home until I’d made a few phone calls. To my brother and sister. They needed to know.’

  ‘Of course, I totally get that.’ I feel the anger slowly draining out of me, and recall only too well how it felt to get that awful phone call on the day my own father and brother were lost. ‘It’s not your fault, Ruby. Obviously that changes things.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I’ll have to speak to Irina though; I asked her specifically not to leave before you arrived. It was too bad of her not to stay.’

  But even as I say that, I know Irina won’t care. Besides, I don’t really have the right to criticise her. She’s not employed to look after my mother, so it would be unjust to reprimand her for not staying beyond her agreed time.

  I’m not happy, though.

  ‘My hand hurts,’ Mum announces, eyeing her bandage miserably.

  ‘Your poor thing,’ I say, and bend to kiss Mum on the cheek.

  ‘You can have more painkillers at five o’clock,’ the doctor tells her, and Mum pulls a disgruntled face.

  After saying goodbye to my mother, Dr Forster asks me to walk to the door with her. While Ruby sits with Mum, I follow the doctor into the hall and shut the living room door behind us for a little privacy.

  ‘It’s not a bad burn, as I said,’ Dr Forster tells me, unsmiling now. ‘But it shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Given the rate at which your mother is deteriorating, she really can’t be left on her own anymore.’ She pauses, seeing my embarrassment, and her tone softens. ‘I realise today was unusual. But I also have a duty of care towards your mother. I have to report any patients who may be at risk of neglect.’

  ‘It won’t happen again,’ I insist.

  The doctor looks at me without saying anything, but I get the feeling she doesn’t believe me.

  On her way out the front door, Dr Forster asks, ‘Look, have you given any more thought to the idea of a residential home for her? I know you decided against it when we discussed it last time, but things change rapidly in this disease and never for the better.’ She gives me a sympathetic smile. ‘Even a taster week would afford you a few days’ respite if you’re struggling.’

  ‘I’m not struggling,’ I state firmly. ‘And put her into a home? No, I won’t hear of it. Besides, Mum wouldn’t go willingly. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, getting her consent is paramount. I’m afraid your hands may be tied if your mother refuses to go. At least while she’s still able to discuss her choices in a reasonable manner. That’s one of the dilemmas with dementia. There’s no clear-cut moment when a person ceases to have the capacity to make those decisions for themselves. Often, it’s just a matter of wait-and-see.’ Dr Forster sighs
. ‘It’s a real pity, though. I happen to know that Fairview has a few beds available at the moment. It’s one of the best residentials in the area, if you ask me, and though it’s pricey, their levels of care are second to none.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry. We’re not at that stage yet.’

  ‘Well, that’s a decision you may need to make together. Let me know if you have any further concerns about her hand, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’ I watch her walk across the gravel drive to her car. ‘Thank you for everything you’ve done, Doctor.’

  She nods, but waves me back inside. ‘Better keep an eye on her.’

  The doctor definitely doesn’t think much of me as a carer, I realise, and feel heat in my cheeks. But can anyone really blame her after what happened today?

  Closing the door, I hurry back into the living room, guiltily aware that Ruby must also want to leave and that I’m holding her up.

  I find Ruby talking soothingly to Mum, down on her knees next to the armchair.

  Poor Ruby.

  She must have had such a traumatic day, I think, first learning of her grandfather’s death, then rushing over here, only to discover that Mum had nearly set fire to the house, burnt herself in the process and needed the doctor to visit.

  ‘I can take over now,’ I tell her. ‘It’s okay if you need to leave. You must have things to do.’

  Ruby gets up slowly. ‘I do,’ she admits, still with tears in her eyes. ‘But I need to say something first, if I could have a word in private?’

  I feel so bad about the way I practically accused her of neglecting my mother that I follow her to her car, hoping she too isn’t going to give me a hard time like the doctor did. She’s my mother, after all, and I did leave her with only the cleaner in the house. I’m the one ultimately to blame for today’s accident.

  It’s chilly outside, the dusk slowly thickening around us. Our next-door neighbour’s small dog is outside and barking for some reason, something I always find stressful. But I wait to hear what Ruby has to say, trying not to let its incessant yapping get on my nerves.

  ‘I’m so sorry about the fire and your mother’s accident,’ Ruby begins to say again, but I hold up a hand.